Thirteen Roses Book Four: Alone: A Paranormal Zombie Saga (18 page)

He should find somewhere safe. There was nowhere safe, not in the traditional sense of the word, but somewhere he could barricade and sleep. He was tired. His feet caught on something and he stumbled. He caught himself before he fell and kept going. He’d been here before. Running.
 

He was the wind.

His feet brought him from the no-man’s land of the city into the west end and he stopped below the huge yellow boards advertising the Lion King Musical. His chest heaved and the stitch in his side felt like one of the zombies had taken a bite out of him. He could hide in here. He could get into one of the boxes and barricade the doors, and no one would be able to creep up on him.
 

He dashed up the steps, shouldering aside an usher dressed in black, hands clawing at him as he went. The foyer was empty save the two zombies sat in the ticket booths. They were trapped, their hands bloody from where they’d been bashing at the glass. They growled as he entered, their eyes fixed on him, but he ignored them as he read the signs.
 

The classy gold fixings were out of place alongside the zombie ticket-sellers. He followed the arrows towards the boxes and was halfway down the darkened corridor when he stopped. A monkey, or rather, a zombie dressed as a monkey, stepped into the hallway.
 

It wore a huge head dress and carried a staff, clutched clumsily in one hand. The moment it saw him it lurched forwards, stage paint cracking off its face. There was something about the patches of rotting skin showing through the blacks and browns of the paint, that made Dave hesitate. It was like it was trying to hide its zombieness. He thought that maybe he knew about hiding things.

That was all it took for the monkey to reach him.
 

The staff fell as its hands reached for his throat. He staggered back and landed on his arse. The creature landed atop him and its teeth opened wide. Dave giggled. He was being attacked by a monkey in a theatre in London. Something slipped in his mind. It was like walking on ice. There was always that moment when your balance goes and you try to stay upright, knowing it’s pointless. Memories came sneaking in, flashes of women he’d known.
 

As their faces filled his mind, the zombie closed its teeth over his arm. He stared, eyes wide. He was being bitten. He screamed and yanked his hand back just before it closed its mouth. He could feel the warm saliva on his skin, and the thing’s panting breath, and the mist came down.
 

When he came round, he held the monkey’s head in his hands and sat astride the stiff body. The head stared at him with wide, dead eyes. He threw it down the corridor, groaning and burying his head in the chest beneath him. It smelled so gross his stomach heaved and threatened to spew his breakfast across the dark carpet.
 

Did he eat breakfast? He’d found it harder to eat since St Paul’s. He certainly hadn’t had any lunch, and his stomach growled as he sat up. He clambered off the monkey and weaved his way down the corridor. He’d find the box, barricade the door, and sleep. Then he’d worry about food.
 

He glanced through an open door and caught sight of the stage. The front half of a giraffe slewed back and forth across it and he found himself mesmerised. He half expected to see guts dripping from the back end but it was just paper and card and wood.
 

He shook his head and traveled on. He reached the boxes without meeting any more animals, hauled open the door to one, and screamed. The zombie leapt forwards and grabbed his face. Its nail went through his cheek and he smashed his fists against it, driving its arms down and away from his body. His control slipped, but somehow, he was aware this time.
 

The faces were still in his mind, sharp and vivid, as though the violence was taking him back into his past life. He stood with the faces and watched himself as he fought. Though in truth, it was no fight.
 

He drove the zombie back into the box and grabbed its arms. He skipped around a chair and yanked the arms down as hard as he could. They struck the back of the chair and snapped off, leaving him holding the stumps. Keeping hold of the hands, he stepped back around the chair and beat the zombie in the face with the wet ends.
 

Battered by the relentless assault, it staggered away until it reached the edge of the box. He threw the arms over the edge and grabbed the creature by the material of its shirt. He hefted the zombie over the barrier, then leant to watch it tumble down. It struck the edge of the stage and exploded.
 

Its skull split apart, brains spilling across the stage. Its legs flew into the front row and its body collapsed into the brains. The mist receded and he backed away from the edge, stomach once more complaining. The giraffe lurched towards the body.
 

As the zombie bent to the corpse, the head and long neck of the giraffe struck the stage and broke off. It was forgotten, discarded as the zombie began scooping brain matter into its mouth. Another zombie, this one with an entire herd of gazelle attached to its head, came stumbling from the wings and sunk its teeth into one of the arm stumps.
 

Dave slumped into one of the chairs. He was up just as quick as he grabbed the door and slammed it closed. There was a lock! With a huge grin he flicked it closed and slumped back into his seat. He’d seen faces, people he knew he’d once loved. He didn’t know what it meant to love someone, not now, but he knew it was important. Theoretically.
 

He tried to picture their faces. They had been so bright, so vivid when he’d been fighting, but now they were almost gone, dull shapes in his mind. He sat up, trying to find them. He squeezed his eyes closed and searched but there was nothing there. He wanted to see them. He wanted something! It was a strange thing. A feeling he couldn’t blame on hunger. He took the feeling down into sleep.
 

His eyes opened slowly, cracking the film of crust that covered them. How long had he slept? The theatre was no different. He blinked and stared about. Some of the boxes on the opposite walls were busy, zombies sat in chairs or leaning against the balconies. One was busy tucking into someone who presumably had once been its date or wife.
 

He blinked and looked away, blushing as his stomach growled. He needed to eat. He glanced up and jumped. His chair wobbled and toppled backwards, taking him into the darkness at the back of the box. A zombie wearing tights and a lion’s head was hanging from the box above, hands flailing around wildly.
 

Dave put his hand on his chest to try and slow his thumping heart. He groaned, eyes not leaving the lion. Any second it would drop from the balcony and tear into him. He tried to slide off the chair while keeping watch, but his shoulder slipped and he tumbled off. He scrambled up, hands over his head. The lion was still there and still twitching.
 

He waited, holding his breath. Its hands no longer flailed, only twitching like the rest of it. It jerked and Dave jumped back, cowering again. Then it moved. He watched, eyes wide as the lion finally pounced.
 

The first thing he saw was that there was no lion below the waist. Instead he saw the bloody loops of entrails and tattered edges of skin. The second thing he realised was that it wasn’t attacking. It struck the edge of his balcony face first and the crunch drowned out his retching as its face split apart. Then it tumbled away and off the balcony, down to the stage.
 

He didn’t rush forward to check. He took a step to the nearest chair and collapsed, unable to take his gaze from the bright smear on the railing that shone in the dim lighting. He heard a creak from the balcony above and peered up at the darkness. It didn’t matter what was up there, it didn’t know he was here. He pulled his feet up to the edge of the chair and wrapped his arms around his knees.

His stomach growled again and he clapped his hands over it. Surely the creature above had heard that. But the creaking was still occurring and he had a horrible picture in his mind of a zombie chomping down on the lion’s severed legs. He shuddered and went for the door.
 

He listened for a while, but heard nothing. He needed a weapon. He needed something with which to defend himself instead of just his hands. He stared at the blood and gunk covering his fingers and knuckles. He should wash them. Preferably before he ate anything.
 

He slipped down the passage until he found the signs for the toilet. A zombie stood at the sink, trousers around its ankles, staring in the mirror. How long had it been there? Dave almost stood beside it to wash his hands. If not for the trousers, it could have looked almost normal.
 

There was nothing here, no weapon to speak of… he felt the mist this time, like a tube train’s lights coming towards the platform from the tunnel. The ground shook and the sound grew louder and a wind blew and then he was driving the zombie’s face into the edge of the sink. He slammed and slammed and the nose and cheek bones went. He knew the moment the sink smashed through to its brain, but he didn’t stop. It wasn’t until he felt the hard edge of the basin against his hand that he released the body and stepped away.
 

The zombie slumped to the ground, skull mostly gone. The skull was, in fact, mostly on his hands. It took a moment or two to come back to himself before he set the taps to blasting and started to scrub. Once the water stopped running red he dried his hands, visited the loo, and crept back into the corridor.
 

He hadn’t seen the faces that time. He’d been searching for them as he debrained the zombie, but they were gone. The thought of never seeing them again made him want to vomit, his mouth opening and closing like a fish on the dry wooden slats of the quay. He needed food. Everything would feel better after food.
 

By the time he reached reception he had resolved to return to the theatre. The box was safe and it was warm in here. He could bring things back and make a place for himself.
 

He visited the co-op first, finding one with only a couple of zombies in, and beating them both to death. Both times he searched for the faces and both times he was unsuccessful.
 

He struggled back to the theatre with bulging bags and climbed the stairs to the top boxes. He went in the one at the furthest end of the corridor and locked the door. Then he sat down and ate until his sides hurt whilst watching dislocated flocks of strange birds weave their way across the stage. The zombie actor to whom they were attached ruined the effect somewhat by kneeling beside the corpse and licking at the semi-dried blood.
 

Oddly, his tinned food didn’t taste any worse. Although, it would be a struggle to make it taste much worse. He needed a stove, some way to heat the food. There was a camping shop just down from Trafalgar square on the way to St James’s Park. He stood, stretched, and headed for the door.
 

He reached reception again and grabbed a bag of popcorn from the desk. He tore it open before he stepped out into the street. He was getting careless. He knew it because he opened the door when he should have seen the gang of zombies stood across the road.
 

He did spot them, though, when the door opened and one of them, a zombie wearing what looking like a London Underground uniform, pointed at him. He was almost more surprised by the pointing than the horde of zombies rushing towards him.
 

Jackson

Jackson stepped out and smelt the air. It smelt of opportunity. He would kill some zombies today, and do it with a smile on his face. The view from up here was breathtaking, the whole of London spread out below him. He raised his hands like he was lifting a glass ball and cupped London between them. He held the whole city between his fingers. If he had an army he could wipe out the zombies, drive them before him and sweep them into the river.
 

He glanced over his shoulder. He didn’t have an army. He had forty something scared young girls who thought they wanted saving when what they really wanted was dick. If they just did what Harriet had, and admit to their true selves, they’d find everything they need. He was sure of that, just like he was sure God had sent them to the Shard so Jackson could see this.
 

He spread his arms wide. This was his city. This had been his city since he was a little boy, escaping Mam’s gaze for long enough to punch someone or sneak off and steal from the old lady next door. Now he was in charge. He didn’t need to sneak around or pretend anything.
 

He winced as the bruises and cuts on his back strained against the stretching. He grinned and stepped back through the glass doors. Harriet was asleep, face pressed into the pillow. Her shoulder was naked and showed the marks from last night. Turned out she didn’t just like to do the hitting; She liked it rough all over. Suited him down to the ground.

He dressed, not bothering to be quiet, and left the room. The remains of the food was stuffed into the fridges and he had a dig until he found something to eat. Then he picked up the baseball bat he’d found in the security office and headed for the lift.
 

The journey down took a couple of minutes, long enough for him to reflect upon the previous day’s events. From stuck up Christian bird to animal man-beater in a day. He hadn’t asked her who else she’d done it with. It didn’t matter, and he had the strongest feeling he was the first. She didn’t hit with any precision, she just liked whaling on him. And she liked it when he threw her around a bit and dug his fingers in.
 

He liked it as well. Never thought much beyond getting his end away but now it felt like a whole world was open before him. Although, he hadn’t slept much for wondering whether God approved. He’d prayed but received no answer, so he knew he didn’t mind. He trusted Jackson, and he trusted Harriet also. She wasn’t his chosen, but she was a true believer. She was responsible for separating the ladies and driving them away from Luke.